


Yes, he's that way

by VillainousVivs



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Dead People, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Halls of Mandos, Heavy Angst at ch.5, Humor, Nobody knows, Who is Gil-Galad?, crack treated like crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-14
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:28:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24723823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VillainousVivs/pseuds/VillainousVivs
Summary: Another take at the events of Scion of Somebody, Probably.
Comments: 32
Kudos: 212





	1. You lot are new, aren't you?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Drag0nst0rm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Scion of Somebody, Probably](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17654294) by [Drag0nst0rm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drag0nst0rm/pseuds/Drag0nst0rm). 



> Gil-galad realized five minutes into his death that Fëanor had taken over Mandos.

Gil-galad realized five minutes into his death that Fëanor had taken over Mandos.

(He was slipping, he knew, though he wasn’t sure how far; could Elrond still put him back together? Could he still fight, after? He couldn’t feel past the burns, and he was a little feverish, but they’d treated worse, hadn’t they? 

Another agonising moment later, he was loathed to concede that he was going to die. 

“Burn it,” he told Isildur, who was staring at Elendil, who was dead. 

“Burn it,” he said again, when Isildur finally turned and picked up the One Ring from the disembodied finger. It was so bright he couldn't bear to look, so he closed his eyes, and somehow he didn’t want to open them again.

“Burn it,” he breathed, and he hoped he was heard, because it really did need to burn, though he couldn’t be quite sure why. What were they burning, again?

_Burn it,_ he thought as he sped away to what must be Mandos, across sea and air and space, and then suddenly he was whole again.

“-King? Your Majesty?”

It was his general, Faerthurinel, who was shaking him. She looked smaller without her armor, and more grey, somehow, though he supposed that wasn’t the most pressing issue.

“Mandos?” he asked as the hundreds of recently slain took a step back to let him stand.

There were white pillars in the distance, shrouded by grey mist and undetermined distance. He could find no lights save the harsh, pale beam that shone down to Mandos’ throne, though he also had no trouble in seeing the recently dead that walled him in. “Yes, though he’s already passed judgement. You weren’t… well, you weren’t whole enough, and we weren’t allowed to hear it, so we’re not sure what he’d said.” She looked around uncertainly. No one disagreed. “Not sure if you’re supposed to be with the rest of us.”

It took him a minute to digest. “I wasn’t whole enough?”

“Sauron,” she explained, “burned you to a crisp. I saw. But the fire had some strange witchery in it, and it delayed your passing, somehow. Your, er, your body materialized here just fine, so Mandos spoke to you, but you wouldn’t wake up.”

Mandos, who sat in his throne not ten feet away from the commotion, gave nothing.

“What,” Gil-galad demanded, “did you say to me?”

“I have passed my sentence,” Mandos said flatly.

For a little while, the crowd around him erupted. Gil-galad gathered all his kingly experience of handling roomful of outraged nobles and listened in.

“You have to tell him! He’s the High King!”

“Does this mean we _still_ don’t know whose son he is?”

“What are we supposed to do now!”

“My daughter, Lord Mandos, do you know where she is? She passed not too long ago, please, where is she?”

“How about we go ask Fëanor?”

They all froze and stared at the poor elf who blurted out the last bit.

“What?!” he exclaimed. “Look!”

He pointed towards Mandos’ throne. There was a glowing sign etched into it that read: “ _T_ _o all who would lend aid to Fëanor Fëanáro and his escape from Mandos, proceed this way_.” Below that was an arrow, pointing towards the distance.

Mandos, for all his pitiless serenity, sighed.

“Yes,” said the Vala. “He’s that way.”)

The arrow pointed towards a dim light in the distance. Upon closer inspection, Gil-galad saw that it was, dreadfully, another sign with an arrow, with the same message.

He considered ignoring the signs. Break off from the growing crowd and disappear. It wouldn’t be hard, he didn’t think, to hide in some dusty corner in the endless halls and wait until he’s forgotten. Surely it's better than meeting whomever he's bound to bump into, if they kept going.

And then his people started to chant a lament with his name in the forefront, and Gil-galad was forced to reassess his escape methods and their supposed rates of success.

Five signs down, the words began to vary. This one said: _Don’t take your robes off! They_ will _disintegrate!_

"Oh," said someone in the crowd. "Oops." Gil-galad ignored the giggles and moved on.

The next: _It is advised that you do NOT unweave the tapestry without supervision. You have been warned._

And then: _If you try really, really hard, you can scale about_ (23) _feet before someone comes to knock you down_. 

_Nobody has shoes! We checked. If you do somehow possess footwear, please contact your closest Fëanorian IMMEDIATELY._

The next sign was broken, though he could still read the words _Thingol, bastard,_ and some profanity in Quenya he couldn’t quite recall the meaning of.

_You can’t draw blood, but it is possible to bite your fingers off. Let it be noted that Mandos himself has to reattach the limb, so it might take a while to get it back._

The next sign had a small crowd gathered about it, and he soon saw why. It gave a summary of which tapestries were where, and a multitudes of arrows that pointed towards them. Apparently, a complete and rather bloody rendition of the Alqualondë was to his left.

“What,” he said to the first shade he met, “is going on?”

She shrugged. “Fëanor pissed Vairë off, so she sewed his mouth shut. They’re trying to take the threads off, I think. I don't really keep up with the news.”

Gil-galad couldn’t help himself; he laughed. He laughed harder when she raised a cool eyebrow, and then stopped when he realized that she was serious. “No.”

His fallen, who were already buzzing with agitation and gossip, burst the quiet of the halls like a dog would a bubble.

She snorted. “You lot are new, aren’t you?” and she drifted off.

Gil-galad took advantage of the confusion and slipped away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might write more of this? Who knows


	2. Pillow mint tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon, who did not untie him, only smiled wider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest with y'all, I have no idea where this is going

Gil-galad found Maedhros quite by accident, after he’d fallen into a pit of pillows and children.

“You look familiar,” he told Gil-galad, who was still stuck on the pillows and children part, both literally and otherwise.

“Mmmfmmhh,” he replied. The pillows he climbed out of easily enough. The children, on the other hand, and on his feet, and on his face, proved to be a little more clingy.

“Nelyo, doesn’t he kind of look like Fingon?” said the one who plastered their torso in his face.

”Yeah, isn’t he the one that makes Curufin cry like a baby?” said the one stuck to his feet.

Nelyo. Tall. Noldo. Redhead.

_Maedhros._

Maedhros picked them by the scruff and tossed them into the pillows. “No,” he said to them. “That’s Celebrimbor.” He squinted at Gil-galad. “He’s not Celebrimbor.”

“Naerpen, at your service,” declared Gil-galad. “You’re Maedhros.”

Maedhros gave a small incline of his head, but otherwise made no acknowledgement of both his introduction and his statement. Gil-galad didn’t much mind, seeing how the children were currently climbing him like a t-plastering him like a blanket. 

“You’re new,” he said instead. “From the battle with Sauron?”

“Yes,” said Gil-galad.

Maedhros walked over to a chair-shaped pillow, then gestured for him to sit in the one across from him. One of the children leapt out from the pillows and served them pillow-tea, on a pillow-table. Gil-galad’s was mint. He did not like mint, and could not drink pillows, so he left it alone.

Not that the dead would have any need for food, or drink. Or pillows. Or children.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“Mandos, dummy,” a child replied. Maedhros picked her up and started braiding her hair.

“We call it the Pit,” said another. “For obvious reasons. People kept falling in, so Fëanor and Curufin piled pillows at the bottom.”

“And the children?”

“Incidental,” said Maedhros. 

“What he means is that we follow him around,” explained the girl whose hair he was braiding. “And he doesn’t want that, but we do it anyways, and he can’t stop us, so he always goes places where we won’t be traumi-tram-tr-”

“Traumatized,” offered Gil-galad.

“Yes! That. You’d think thousands of years in Mandos would’ve given us more vocabulary, but noooooooo, we’re still kids, apparently, even though we’re super old. But yeah, he doesn’t go anywhere we’ll be traumatized, which is pretty much everywhere, so we mostly just stay at the Pit.”

One of the others, who were forming an orderly line behind Maedhros, supplied, “And the Years of the Trees tapi-tape-tappi-”

“Tapestry,” said Gil-galad.

“Yeah! We go there sometimes, too.” And then he pouted. “But he wouldn’t show us any of the cool battle ones. Said it’s”--he made a face--“‘bad for our mental wellbeing.’”

“It _is_ bad for your mental wellbeing,” said Gil-galad, though he didn’t understand what _mental wellbeing_ was, exactly. _Mental_ was synonymous with madness. _Wellbeing_ was a word Elrond uttered constantly while he was treating patients; which was to say, something the kindly, wise elf used to berate the wounded while in a state of mania and outrage.

_Mental wellbeing_ would mean…

…

…what did he just tell these children?

“Alright, you’re done,” said Maedhros, and the next elfling leapt into his lap.

Gil-galad changed the topic. “You’ve all been here for thousands of years?”

“Well, some of us,” replied the child in Maedhros’ lap. “Nobody really knows, since not all of us knew the date we passed.”

He frowned. “Certainly Mandos would’ve let you out by now.”

“Yeah, but he can’t let our parents out, so there’s really no point.”

Gil-galad thought about it. He’d heard of concepts for communal caretakers of orphans among Men, though he confessed that Elves, who had comparatively less children and even fewer living orphans, never had the need for such a construct. 

But there was an entire Aman-full of elves out there upon the peaceful shores. “There must be someone out there who can take care of you.”

The child shrugged. “A few of us tried. Not that there were many willing couples who would take children who were under the Doom--but the ones that went out always ended back here, anyways.”

“Oh,” said Gil-galad.

“They don’t really get the whole war-with-Morgoth thing. It’s not so bad. Mandos doesn’t really care what we do here--he used to, I think, but Fëanor pulled something off and got Nienna involved. And got his mouth sewn shut.” He patted Maedhros on the thigh. “Sorry about that.”

“It’s fine,” said Maedhros, unperturbed.

“So now death is pretty much just as good as life! If you can get used to the cold, that is.”

Gil-galad could not, in fact, feel the cold. “Ah.”

“Alright, scooter off,” said Maedhros, already picking up the next child.

“Where did all these pillows come from?” asked Gil-galad.

She shrugged. “Fëanor. Vairë.”

“Okay,” said Gil-galad, who didn’t know what was real and wasn’t, anymore. “How do I get out?”

“They’ll throw a rope down,” she said. “It’s going to be a while, though. Fingon just visited, and they said they needed that rope somewhere else.”

“Okay,” said Gil-galad. “I can’t climb ropes.”

It was about time, he thought, for a meltdown.

* * *

They did throw a rope down, and they did take a while, and it was Fingon who came, which was the worst case scenario.

“Nelyo!” cried the elf with gold-and-raven braids, who then enveloped the layer of children atop Maedhros. “Do you remember Gil-galad?”

“No,” said Maedhros.

“Well, he was the last High King, and he got torched by Sauron, which is pretty much all I know.” He thought for a moment. “He’s not yours, is he?”

Gil-galad buried his face in a pillow and prayed to Eru that he could disappear.

“No,” said Maedhros. “I thought he was Orodreth’s?”

“Well, some do think that, but most think he’s mine.” Maedhros gave him a contemplative silence. “He’s not! He’s not. Well, since he’s neither yours, mine, the Ambarussa’s, or Celegorm’s, it seems I’ll just have to keep looking!”

“Alright,” said Maedhros.

“By the way, have you seen him? I know the new ones always take a fall.”

“No,” replied Maedhros.

“Well! I’d better get going, then. Celegorm mentioned something about a raided village? You might have some new playmates soon.”

An elfling erupted from the pillow-hill beside Gil-galad and told Fingon, very loudly, that they already had a new playmate.

“I’m just leaving,” he said to the rest of them. “Sorry.”

Maedhros gave him the same nod he was first greeted with, and went back to having pillow-tea with his horde. The gold-raven-braid elf, who was staring at him in open suspicion, approached.

“Naerpen, at your service,” he said.

“Fingon, son of Fingolfin, at yours,” replied Fingon, and Gil-galad knew at once he was doomed. “Are you one of the new ones?”

“Yes,” he said, because Maedhros was still within earshot. “From the battle with Sauron.”

Fingon beamed. “Perfect! Want to come with me to find my estranged probably-nephew?”

“No,” answered Gil-galad, already trying to escape up the rope.

Fingon tied the rope around him, climbed out, and then hauled him up.

(“Don’t worry!” Fingon told him brightly. “Curufin made it. The knot doesn’t get loose until I say so. It was the only way father ever talked to uncle again.”)

“Thank you,” said Gil-galad.

Fingon, who did not untie him, only smiled wider. “Let’s go meet uncle Fëanor.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naer means sad or lamentable in Sindarin, and pen is just a suffix I chose, so Gil-galad's new name roughly translates to (or so I intend for it to mean) "Sad person".
> 
> (lol his name means 'sad lad')
> 
> Also, I don't think the elves ever get a concept of mental health? They know they have fëar, and that the fëar can get sick, though they haven't mentioned any techniques for healing (that I can recall) besides the magic/light of Aman.


	3. Then unamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod had turned pale. Gil-galad wondered if this was a good time to run.

Gil-galad missed Nargothrond, mostly because it does not come with a Fingon.

“Celegorm is still looking for a wife, believe it or not,” said Fingon, leading him down the hall that depicted Alqualondë, which he had precariously avoided until now. “Without any success, of course, since we can’t get married without a body. Doesn’t stop him from trying, though! Or getting blacklisted by the other half of elfkind while he’s at it.”

He proceeded to narrate in explicit and excruciating detail what flirting techniques were used, and how they failed. Gil-galad wondered what misdeed he had done to the Valar to deserve this.

“At this point his best candidate would be Oromë,” he said. “Also, Aredhel finally found Maeglin!”

Gil-galad missed Nargothrond because they had dwarves, and those dwarves did not talk so much, or tie him with a magical rope, or make him walk down a creepy corridor with even creepier decoration. Also, dwarves were nicer to him than elves, as a whole. Not according to other elves, but then, other elves didn’t tend to be orphans left in the wilderness to die, either.

“...and we all thought he was a lost cause! Turns out, a healthy relationship with one’s mother can do wonders to your fëa. On a side note, did you know that Amrod actually got into a fight with Amras? Or the other way around, I guess, but…”

Other elves didn’t look kindly upon filthy children who stole their harvests or pilfered their carts. Other elves didn’t let him off lightly when he was caught. Other elves didn’t welcome him into their homes, however meager, and they did not share their songs.

Other elves didn’t raise him. Gamil, a petty dwarf with a beard of dirt, did.

“...maybe they’ve reconciled now? Who knows. Speaking of which, maybe I should introduce you to Míriel first. She does like having someone to talk to…”

* * *

Or, well. Not raised him, exactly. More on the lines of “kept him alive and taught him to steal and then got attached on the way,” sort of deal. Or as attached as a senile petty dwarf could be to a slight elfling. 

Young Gil-galad, then unnamed, believed so. Dead Gil-galad, currently under the torment of gossip by way of Fingon Fidekáno, knew better.

One night, after he was cornered by a mob of angry merchants’ sons, Gamil came.

“You’ve come,” he gasped, and then shuddered, as large intakes of breath were unadvised while multiple ribs were broken.

“An’ you’re bleedin’ out,” replied Gamil, who turned away as he passed out.

Gil-galad never saw him again.

When he opened his eyes, a noble was there to feed him medicine.

“How are you feeling?” asked the fair-haired elf.

Gil-galad knew enough about nobles to keep his mouth shut and eyes down. He wondered if he’d get hit, if he didn’t answer. He’ll probably get hit anyways, so he kept quiet.

(Everything hurt. He’s been beat up before, but this time was worse; maybe the vendors’ had enough of him. Maybe he would’ve been better, if he hadn’t given so much of their spoils to Gamil. Maybe if he hadn’t stupidly, _stupidly_ , tried to free that little hound from that littler cage, and then got bitten while he’s at it. Maybe if he just slept a little longer, right now.)

And then he remembered Gamil, and the dam broke.

The other elf simply stood--ai Elbereth, he was tall! And Gil-galad was crying, because Gamil didn’t care about him; _he never cared, he left, he saw me and he left and he didn’t say goodbye,_ and the noble’s coming closer, and he’s sitting on the bed, and Gil-galad knew what they said about people who seem too nice and what they did to helpless children in beds, and the noble put his arms around him, and Gil-galad didn't care, and he tried not to tremble or cry or sob or weep, but it didn’t work, and he was almost in his forties, he was too old for hugs, and he didn’t know this elf, and there was nobody else in the room, and that was bad, wasn’t? And he was heaving, and heaving, and heaving, and he knew it was bad, because his ribs are still very, very broken, and he’s opened his wounds again, and he’s bleeding, and the bandages are all filthy and the noble won’t waste precious cloth on a street rat like him, and he’s going to die, and it hurts so much, and he’s so, so tired.

“Hush,” the fair-haired elf seemed to say. It didn’t matter, because he was already passing out.

* * *

“...the betting pool’s over there, that way’s the theatre, and that way is to Thingol, though he’ll probably hate you! This way, of course, is back to Mandos, and thi…”

* * *

The next time he woke up, he tried to escape.

Finrod hoisted him back and tried to feed him.

“It’s not poisoned,” he insisted. “See? I’ll show you.”

Deciding that the Lord of Nargothrond would never waste poison _and_ antidote on him, Gil-galad ate.

“While you do that, why don’t you tell me where,” and he pulled out a piece of wood, “you got this.”

It was a good luck charm that he found on the ground. He told Finrod so.

Finrod frowned, and for a moment Gil-galad thought something terrible was going to happen. 

But he only sighed, and patiently waited for Gil-galad to finish his meal.

“It’s very important to me,” he said softly. “Please--if you know where this came from, would you tell me?”

Gil-galad, appalled at the sight of kindness, told him the truth: Gamil had found it with him as a babe, and he’s kept it since.

Finrod had turned pale. Gil-galad wondered if this was a good time to run.

( _There’s a theme here_ , thought Gil-galad, struggling against Fingon’s rope.)

“What,” Finrod said at last, “is your name?”

Gil-galad had none. Finrod turned paler. He wondered if they would hang him, if the elf Lord passed out.

The next words were a bit more choked. “How about I give you a name?”

He shrugged. “If I can have seconds.”

Finrod agreed, and named him Ereinion. 

“Ereinion,” he said, standing up, “would you like to be adopted into the House of Finarfin?”

“Sure,” said Ereinion. “If I can have some bread with those seconds.”

* * *

“...and here we are!” said Fingon, gesturing to a roomful of Fëanorians.

Fëanor, who had threads on his lips and fire in his eyes, approached.

“Uncle, this is-”

“I THINK THE ROPE IS BROKEN,” yelled Gil-galad.

Fëanor frowned, but took the rope from Fingon, and inspected it.

Gil-galad summoned all his courage and stepped closer. “Here, I’ll show you.”

Before Fingon could give warning, Fëanor handed Gil-galad the rope.

He took it and ran.


	4. Haha, no

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Haha, no,” replied Ereinion, but it was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently moving, so the update schedule might get a bit wonkers!

If Gil-galad could call Finrod his parent, he would, because it would make his life easier.

As it were, Finrod left two weeks after his adoption, and Orodreth was too busy to give him too much thought, so the closest thing he’s got to a father was still the petty dwarf that left him on the streets to die.

Young Gil-galad, then called Ereinion, did not care. He was more interested in the food and clothes he’d been given, and the tutors (who did not insult him, who did not hit him, who did not raise their voice, at least not often; and if they quirked their eyebrows at his atrocious manners, and berated him for his ignorance, and made him feel too-grown-for-this and too-small-for-that and too-stupid all-the-time, that was only natural, wasn’t it?) that hastily taught him his letters and etiquette.

Sometimes, he would overhear some servants’ gossip. “Surely Lord Finrod had enough sense to not disturb the line of succession in front of the Fëanorians.”

The other servant scoffed. “Well, he certainly did just that, didn’t he?”

And then they would notice him, and say no more. Ereinion, who had already eaten the snacks he stole from the pantry, slunk away.

Until he bumped into a fair elf maiden with hair of nightingale and eyes of stars, that is. And her huge dog.

“Do you know the way out?” she asked.

Gil-galad pointed towards the slender crack in the wall that he’d been using.

“Thanks,” she said, and left.

The next day, two elves were kicked out of Nargothrond. He took one of their bedrooms.

The next year, balrogs came, and he led the fleeing populace out of a smuggler’s tunnel.

“How did you know it was there? The tunnel, I mean,” asked one of the guard captains as they migrated towards the Mouths of Sirion.

Ereinion, who’d had enough of people doubting his birth and person and general existence in the past year, lied. “It came to me in a dream.”

The captain gave him a disbelieving stare. “You must be sent by Eru, then, to lead us.”

“Haha, no,” replied Ereinion, but it was too late. The elves behind him had already sprung into song.

By the time they reached the Havens, he had a new name.

By the time he realized what was going on, Círdan was already consulting him about refugees and taxes, and he was bewildered that he could give counsel back.

By the time Gondolin fell, he was already called Lord, so they stuck a crown on him and called him King.

“I don’t know how I got here,” he said to Elrond, once, on a summer evening when things were lax. Elrond laughed. Gil-galad wondered if he would still laugh if he knew that his birthright was usurped by some rascal who knew of a smuggling tunnel, who lied to the world about who he was and what he did.

“Nobody truly does,” said Elrond, and they downed their wine.

* * *

“I don’t know how I got here,” said Gil-galad, staring at who must be Vairë.

She picked him up--or rather, she picked up the threads she was using, which happened to have a Gil-galad in it, because Gil-galad was an idiot who thought he could borrow a Vala’s tool without getting caught; both in the threads and in the act.

She picked up the scissors he’d been after and held it open over him. Gil-galad closed his eyes and hoped that his death--wait, he was already dead, wasn’t he?--his _demise_ would be quick.

She cut him free and tossed him on the ground, then went back to weaving.

“Thank you,” he said, and skittered off to find somewhere people didn’t care about finding him, deciphering his non-existent lineage, or the rope that was permanently attached to his person.

He did not get far, because he tumbled into Fingolfin, who in turn dragged down Turgon, who fell on Aredhel, who was holding Maeglin’s hand.

“Sorry,” he cried to the gaggle of very-tall-looking-kind-of-like-Fëanor-and-Fingon elves, and turned to leave.

Turgon had a better idea. “You scoundrel! Don’t you run from this! Pay proper respect to your King and princess for so rudely running them over, for Eru’s sake.”

King? Princess?

“Turgon,” said Aredhel. “There’s no need for that.” She turned to him. “It’s all right, we’re all dead here. Titles don’t mean much in these Halls.”

_I wish_ , thought Gil-galad. _Wait, did she just say Turgon? As in High King Turgon? As in Gondolin Turgon? The father-of-Idril-doesn’t-like-his-nephew Turgon? Does that mean she’s-_

“As your sister says,” said who must be Fingolfin. “Speaking of which, have you seen Fingon? There is something I would like to ask my son about.”

“Uh,” said Gil-galad. “I’m not sure.”

Turgon, who seemed to already hate him, mentioned the rope. “That’s his rope.”

Gil-galad ran. Turgon, who was taller and faster than him, hauled him back.

“You’re Gil-galad, aren’t you,” said Maeglin.

Fingolfin beamed. “Another grandson! Finally, something Fëanor can’t one-up me!”

“Father, please,” said Aredhel, who took the rope from Turgon. “Also, Telperinquar might be married, so he can still one-up you anytime.”

Fingolfin sagged unhappily at this, but made no further comments.

“I’m not the son of Fingon,” yelped Gil-galad. “Finrod adopted me into the House of Finarfin.”

They froze and stared at him. Gil-galad sighed and conceded that he was going to die a second death.

“I don’t know where I came from,” he began. “A petty dwarf found me in the outskirts of Nargothrond, and…”

They did not interrupt, which he was grateful for. They also did not speak until long after he was finished, which unsettled him.

“You do realize,” said Aredhel, “that we could just ask Finrod, right?”

Gil-galad did not.

“Visitation hours are awhile yet, so why don’t we go meet the family in the meantime?” suggested Fingolfin, clearly eager to gloat about the grandson that probably wasn’t his.

As they trudged back towards the Fëanorians, Maeglin approached him.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “If all else fails, we’ll just spin a bottle to see who adopts you.”

“Haha, no,” replied Gil-galad, but it was too late.


	5. Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon untied him. “You don’t want to see this part,” he informed Gil-galad. “It’s not the prettiest. Actually, it’s the ugliest. And the most boring. And the stinkiest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: heavy angst. references to torture
> 
> Shoutout to [Eilis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eilis/pseuds/Eilisl) for catching my massive error!

As it turned out, they couldn’t spin a bottle to determine his parentage. The first reason was because they didn’t have a bottle. The second was that Fingolfin and Fëanor were brawling.

“Happens every once in a while,” said Celegorm, lounging disinterestedly in a hammock.

The twins concurred. “Especially with your arrival. They both had one grandchild, but now there’s you.”

“But Finrod adopted me,” he reminded them.

Caranthir snorted. “Finrod is also insistent on family unity,” he explained. “So he’ll probably shoot you guilty looks, pout a little, then sell you off to the highest bidder.”

Gil-galad groaned. “So it’s Fingolfin or Fëanor, then?”

The whole room, with the exception of the brawlers, turned to look at him.

He suddenly felt very small. “What?”

Amras (Amrod?) snorted, and the rest of them cascaded into an avalanche of laughter.

Gil-galad turned red. “What!?”

When Curufin stopped spasming on the floor, he came to clap him roughly on the back.

“Lad,” he said with tears in his eyes, “you haven’t met our wives.”

“Huh?” and before he could react, the ladies came in.

There were two--no, three of them. He realized belatedly that he knew none of their names, since it was never recorded in history.

_Sexist_ , Galadriel used to say, and Gil-galad understood a little better what she meant.

“What,” demanded the one at the forefront, “is this?”

Curufin tried to kiss her, got glared at, and explained that this was Gil-galad, adopted something of Finrod’s, and the reason for the brawl.

The other two moved between the half-brothers with practiced ease, then stared at them until they reluctantly muttered apologies (or in Fëanor’s case, made subtle hand gestures) to each other.

“Good,” declared Curufin’s wife, whose name was Lahtissë.

_Surpassing, indeed,_ thought Gil-galad, who at once understood better his predicament. It was not the grandfathers who were fighting over him; it was the ladies of the House of Fëanor.

Somehow this made him very afraid.

“Enough,” said Nárwen, who was doing a fair job at ignoring Caranthir. “We are here about Celebrimbor.”

Curufin came alive. “Tyelpë? He’s here?”

The three gave each other a worrisome look, then turned back to him.

“It’s his ear,” said Lahtissë. “And the rest of him.”

The room held silent for a small eternity. Then, as if on silent agreement, they set out.

Fingon untied him. “You don’t want to see this part,” he informed Gil-galad. “It’s not the prettiest. Actually, it’s the ugliest. And the most boring. And the stinkiest.”

Gil-galad was glad to regain his freedom within Mandos, but tagged along. What did they mean, his ear? And the rest of him…?

“You have been warned,” sighed Fingon.

Their first stop was Vairë’s, where they took a heavy roll of string and some needles.

“Why?” asked Gil-galad.

“You’ll see,” said Maeglin, characteristically grim.

Gil-galad did not, in fact, see. Until they came upon an ear before the throne of Mandos, and set their cargo down.

“Oh,” said Gil-galad as Curufin fell on his knees. Somehow he gathered enough courage to look at the other elf’s face, and saw, startlingly, that he was weeping.

“ _Ai, Tyelpë, Tyelpë! Mime nénar, mime mel, mime estel…_ ” 

The others set out to scavenge. A long while later, a nail came through.

“Oh,” breathed Gil-galad. 

Eventually they found all the nails, and the family set them where they would go, if the rest of the body was here.

Curufin stormed off, after. He came back just in time to welcome the teeth.

“He always had a crooked canine,” said Lahtissë, smiling weakly, and Gil-galad shuddered.

_How could you say that!_ he thought, in silent outrage.

And then he looked around and understood that there was nothing else to say.

After teeth came toes, then fingers, then eyes. At long last, there was a palm, and the family got to work.

Fëanor, nimble-handed as he was, took a needle to thread, and began to sew the body back together. Fingolfin spun the roll behind him as he worked, and Lahtissë described the feel of Celebrimbor’s hand to him, all the while Curufin wept.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out to nobody in particular.

“We know,” said Nárwen, who was assembling the left foot.

“I’d take it all back, if I could,” he said, staring blankly ahead.

“Yes,” whispered Fëanor. “I know.”

Curufin tried to take a breath in, failed, and had a coughing fit. “ _I_ _t’s not his fault,_ ” he rasped. “ _It should be me. It should’ve been me._ ”

No one answered. When at last the face was found, Curufin held it against his chest until all other parts were sewn, and Lahtissë coaxed it from him by giving him a kiss.

Gil-galad did not get to see Celebrimbor awake. Fingon dragged him away as the family left, leaving only Lahtissë to await her son’s arrival to Mandos.

“Why,” he asked quietly, “do you not stay?”

Curufin only shook his head. “He would not want to see me.” And fell silent.

After the grim shuffle back to their common room, Gil-galad faced a silence he did not know how to break.

“I’m sorry,” someone said.

It took the whole room staring for Gil-galad to realize that it was he who spoke.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Fingolfin said to him, even as he cried.

He didn’t know where his tears came from. Lahtissë had a broken son and a crumbling husband, and yet she had not shed a tear. He only met Celebrimbor, what, twice? Sure, they corresponded by mail, but they were Lords with their own realms to rule, and were beyond standoffish with each other. He hadn’t even given the elf a second thought until his arrival in Mandos.

So there was no reason that he’s crumpled on the floor, weeping. No cause for his face to leak anguish so potent he shook. No logic to justify the pit he felt in his fëa, and how it pulsed painfully, as if it were the one being pieced together.

_I’m in pain_ , he thought. _Why am I in pain?_

“Oh, Ereinion,” said Fingon, and put his arms around him.

Aredhel followed suit. Fingolfin lent out a hand for his shoulder, and Fëanor mirrored him. Nárwen firmly gripped his hands from hiding his ruined face, and the third wife--what was her name, he couldn’t remember her name, who was she--cupped his face gently. The rest hovered nearby, watching him with something he didn’t recognize.

“I- _hh_ -I d- _hh_ -don’t underst- _hh_ -tand,” he sobbed. “I sh- _hh_ -shouldn’t b-be cry- _hh_ -ing. I didn’t even kn- _hh_ -know him.” He hiccuped. “I m- _hh_ -met him tw- _hh_ -twice. We’re n- _hh_ -not even rela- _hh_ -ted.”

Somebody kissed his forehead, and Aredhel said: “You weep for him because you are kind, Gil-galad.”

Kind.

Kind.

Kind, as in good.

Kind, as in noble.

Kind, like Finrod, who fed him and clothed him and saved his life.

Kind, as in a good person.

“No,” he said vehemently, shaking his head. He knew he looked manic, but he didn’t care. “I’m not… I- _hh_ -I’m **not**.”

They only squeezed him tighter. 

“I’m not!” he cried in protest. “Really. I’m-I’m not…”

_Not kind_.

“You weep for him,” continued Aredhel, “because he’s family.”

_You don’t know that!_ He thought as his lungs--why does he even have a body! This is Mandos! He’s not meant to have a body, none of them were!--convulsed, painfully and thoroughly. _How could you know that! I was just-just someone Finrod found. On the streets. He took pity; the adoption was just to spite Celegorm and Curufin. I was just--incidental._

“We love you,” someone said, and hearing it made him so sad, he gagged.

_NO! I’m not family! I’m nobody!_

“You’re not nobody,” said Fëanor. “You’re _ours_.”

There was no hope for recovery, after that; Gil-galad pulsed with sick and pain. He coughed and shook and wailed and thrashed. Each time he opened his eyes he saw the lot of them crowding him with-with _love_ , which made him so afraid he kept them closed. He spent his tears more generously than he had ever in life, and when he ran out, he simply feigned more. When he tried to escape, they held him tighter.

“I’m going to pass out now,” he told them, and proceeded to do just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mime nénar, mime mel, mime estel: My star, my love, my hope  
> Lahtissë: Surpassor  
> Nárwen: Fire-maiden


	6. The Jar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil-galad nodded along until he remembered they were talking about him. “Wait, what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I'm still alive. No I am not done moving. Here is content please enjoy

Gil-galad drifted blissfully into awakedness atop a small pile of pillows, and shrieked when he saw Curufin perching directly to his left.

“You’re awake,” said Curufin, who looked rather displeased.

Gil-galad sat up and saw that Celebrimbor was next to him, mostly whole.

“We found his torso first,” began Curufin, “since it was the part Sauron touched the least.”

“Oh,” said Gil-galad, who was regretting being awake.

“There were lashes,” continued Curufin, who Gil-galad concluded to have the emotional intelligence of a pickle. “And burns. And holes where there’s not meant to be holes. And-” he shook his head. “His hair was cut and we picked them out one by one.”

 _How did you know it was him?_ thought Gil-galad.

“Lahtissë begged Nienna for aid, and Fëanor had to drag Thingol to the throne--for annoyance--before Mandos would let her help.”

Gil-galad nodded.

“We thought we had all of him,” muttered Curufin.

Gil-galad peered closer and saw that there were three fingers missing on the right hand. “Oh.”

Curufin didn’t seem to hear him. “Those rings… why did you make those rings? You saw the silmarils. You saw what they did to us. You weren’t there when atar left us, but certainly, certainly you could see that they ruined us. Or were we they ones who ruined them…? You were against us when we were against Finrod. You were against us when you found out about Lúthien. You were always kind… you knew. You knew better. You liked Lahtissë more, didn’t you? When we argue--we argue so much, we were so loud, how did you survive it?--you always went with her. You would call me for meals, and I never listened… maybe you’ve already noticed? I talked about the forge and father’s works; you told me to get out more. Lahtissë said I spent too long working; I told her to flock her coven if she was so desperate for attention...”

Gil-galad waved his arms dramatically in front of Curufin. It didn’t work.

“... you liked that Telerin girl, didn’t you? Lahtissë was against it. She wouldn’t have anyone left, if you moved. I didn’t even notice you were speaking until she cried. Afterwards she came to me for assurance, did you know that? And I told her she was overreacting...”

Gil-galad shook him.

“... so I told her she could come with me or rot here with Nerdanel, and she was so shocked that I insulted my own mother, she let me sweep her along…”

Gil-galad tried to drag him away, to no avail.

“... she cried all the way to Middle Earth, and I was angry at her for it. She left when father died. I hated her for it… for everything we did to ourselves...”

Gil-galad was considering having a little meltdown. Just a small one.

“... I hated her when I arrived. I hated her when I found father again. I didn’t stop hating her until father cried, did you know that? If it wasn’t fo-”

“Heeeeeeeeeey,” announced Fingon, who injected himself into the conversation by startling Gil-galad into another shriek. “Great timing! They want you by the Jar. Let’s go!”

And they were away.

“What,” wheezed Gil-galad, “was _that_?”

“The pillows? Those are gifts from the Pit children. We wanted something soft for Celebrimbor to wake up in, and we obviously can’t throw a mostly sewn-together body in with children, so we hauled some here.”

“No, the-nevermind.”

Fingon flashed him a cautionary smile. “Wiser words never spoken, Ereinion.”

Gil-galad chose not to unpack that and asked: “What’s the Jar?”

“A visitation station, of sorts. Private enough for conversations, but public enough so people don’t tear each other to shreds.”

“And we’re going there why?”

This time, the smile was much more suspicious. “You’ll see.”

Gil-galad did see, if he couldn’t hear; the Jar looked to be an actual jar, with a metal lid, though it was enormous in size. It had two doors that opposed one another, as well as a table and a few chairs inside.

“I see why you call it the Jar,” he said.

Finrod was already there with the ladies of the House of Fëanor, and they were probably bartering for custody.

“They’re bartering for custody,” confirmed Celegorm, who sat with the rest of the family to watch the show.

Finrod, in turn, was across from the wife of Maglor (whose name he should really learn) while the other ladies stood. They were speaking civilly, for a while. Then, the nameless lady took Finrod’s hands and gently encased them with her own.

“Here it comes,” said Maeglin.

The other two approached Finrod, though Gil-galad couldn't see their expressions, as their backs were to him.

Finrod looked very frightened. He tried to pull his hands back. He could not.

“Here it comes,” said Maeglin, louder.

Nárwen cradled Finrod’s face, effectively trapping him, and Lahtissë leaned in to whisper something in his ear.

Finrod turned pale.

“Is this normal?” asked Gil-galad, who wasn’t sure what normal was, anymore.

Celegorm shrugged. “Happens every once in a while.”

When Lahtissë was finished with her mutterings, she pecked Finrod’s forehead while Nárwen began to pace around, as if giving a vibrant yet delicate speech. Her face remained carefully neutral, save for a few dramatic expressions whose conveyance Gil-galad could not determine.

There was giggling from the other side of the audience. It was Caranthir. “She’s so beautiful,” he said. “So beautiful.” And he giggled some more.

Finrod looked like he was going to cry.

Eventually, the two ladies receded, and the third released his hands as if she had held them in tenderness this whole time. They gave him warm, radiant smiles, and curtsied as the visitation ended.

Finrod fled.

Caranthir ran up to kiss Nárwen. He was ignored.

“He didn’t crack,” Lahtissë told them. “And likely won’t come back for a while.”

The crowd groaned in disappointment.

“What do we do now?” cried someone in the back.

“We share,” replied Nárwen, who didn’t look happy about it.

Gil-galad nodded along until he remembered they were talking about him. “Wait, what?”

“You’re the family child now,” said the left twin, who might be Amras.

The right twin rubbed his head affectionately. Gil-galad no longer had the willpower to begrudge him.

“This is a really bad idea,” said Turgon.

Fëanor and Fingolfin had already begun to brawl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am tired. will sleep now


	7. No grandfathers left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gil-galad saw what was on the signs and understood what Celegorm said about crying on command.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting in the middle of the night? Me? Pfffft, where did u get that idea?

The betting pool, Gil-galad was beginning to realize, was an actual pool. Several pools. Several large pools. Several _lakes_.

“They’re filled with tears,” Celegorm told him.

“Nienna?”

“No.”

Gil-galad swallowed. “Ah.” And then: “How does that work?”

“Most of us can cry on command,” Celegorm reminded him.

Gil-galad chose to not think about that, and walked towards the glowing signs.

Gil-galad saw what was on the signs and understood what Celegorm said about crying on command.

He buried his face into his hands as Celegorm chuckled. “Looks like Nárwen’s winning this time.”

When Gil-galad finally worked up the courage to uncover his eyes, Lahtissë had overtaken Maglor’s wife. “ _Why are they so interested in whose womb I came out of_.”

“I betted on Nárwen, if you’re wondering,” answered Celegorm. “Not that anyone outside of the family knows you’re adopted. Well, there are rumors. Like how maybe you were conceived by ghouls, or washed ashore by the will of Ossë. I think the newest one has something to do with a dragon?”

Gil-galad begged to be led somewhere else. Celegorm conceded, eventually, once it was Aredhel’s turn.

“Can I please sleep?” he asked her. “I would really like to sleep. I know we don’t have to sleep, but I’m pretty sure it’s possible? I am very tired.”

“No,” said Aredhel, stringing her bow.

( _Where was she getting a bow from?_ )

Gil-galad swallowed.

( _Where was she going to_ aim?)

“Some never wake up,” Maeglin told him as they trekked towards who-knows-where. “Which would be a problem, since we still haven’t decided whose you are. Also, emil is going to demonstrate some stellar hunting techniques on, ah. A seasoned participant. Not something you want to miss.”

Aredhel flashed him a quick grin. Gil-galad, having met the ladies of the House of Fëanor, felt endangered.

“Please don’t shoot me,” Gil-galad pleaded.

Aredhel laughed, and said, “This one learns fast!” which was not assuring.

“Don’t worry,” said Maeglin, grinning somewhat menacingly. “You’re not the one getting shot at.”

Gil-galad continued to not feel assured. 

Until they stumbled upon what was the gauntest elf Gil-galad had ever seen (are those _holes?_ ), and Maeglin said, “This is my sire, Eöl.”

An arrow whizzed past Gil-galad and planted itself in Eöl’s face. The second one was aimed lower.

“Huh,” said Gil-galad, who let himself be dragged to a bench nearby. Aredhel looked like a delighted whirlwind; the other elf was beginning to look like one of the cheeses Elrond liked to swipe from the pantry. 

“How many times has this happened?” asked Gil-galad.

“Fifty-two,” replied Maeglin, who had pulled out a chart and was diligently documenting the new holes that his mother was gleefully implementing.

“Huh,” said Gil-galad, who appreciated that it was color-coded. “Handy.”

“Yeah,” said Maeglin, and marked the left knee.

* * *

Finrod rarely felt regret; of all the lords that followed the Flight, he felt justified to be the one that turned out the most all right. Didn’t make his non-existent sons swear impossible Oaths, check. Didn’t drag his potential spouse into this whole mess, check. Didn’t break his word even if it got him a terrible, painful death, check. Had enough common sense to not argue with his manic cousins over lordships and then built the largest, most secure realm just to spite them, check. Was kind to literally everyone, check.

Thus, there were many things Finrod had no business of undergoing. Things like torture, madness, heartbreak. Things like Kinslaying. Things like divorce, which Fëanor invented to tell off Nerdanel, right before the aforementioned Kinslaying. Things like karma.

Before his latest visit to the Jar, Finrod hadn’t known what the word meant; it was a definition that had emerged after his passing to Valinor, and what would an elf like Finrod do with karma, anyways? Musing after foreign syllables was more fitting for Fëanor and his ill ilk, who Finrod was definitely not meeting in secret so his wretched tatters of a family could stay grudgingly attached to one another.

(He’d thought it was hard, back then; family dinners with fires that burned low and tempers that flared high, him and Findekáno and Maitimo held in rigid union by their fathers’ vocal dissent and their mothers’ quiet weariness.

They all had two grandfathers, back then. And each other. And a small sea of relatives that mostly didn’t actively hate each other, even if some did passively disapprove.

There was tension, but tension was a fact of life, when one was descended from Finwë.

It was the lack there-of that alarmed him, when he came back. The tension had snapped like a hair band strewn too tight, and the pieces were tiny and everywhere, and he was the only one picking them up.

He had returned to Valinor with congratulations and festivities, and parents who sat with more than just vacant space between them. He had come back with accents and tongues scrutinzed and scorned, with tales briefly regaled and firmly hushed.

His mother stayed in Tirion for a week, and had him follow her to Alqualondë, mobs be damned. He bade her farewell when he saw too many wine stains on Finarfin’s letters, too many wobbly words. 

“He won’t last,” he said, in lieu of _I have to go_.

“I know,” said Eärwen, who’d burned all the letters he sent her unopened.

“I’ll come back,” he promised, in lieu of _I'm sorry I took so long, last time_.

“Don’t use the front door,” she said, and handed him a small, plain key.

“Grandfather doesn’t look at me anymore,” he said, in lieu of _goodbye_ , in lieu of _I have no grandfathers left, have I?_

“No,” said Eärwen. “He doesn’t.”)

Finrod was intimately entangled with karma, now. Finrod was also intimately entangled with the ladies of the House of Fëanor, and not in a way that threatened anyone but himself.

“I can’t tell them,” he muttered, because how would a child adopted by Fëanorians leave Mandos before the End of Arda? “And I can’t go back,” he decided, because he’d already been mauled to death by wolves once, which was more than enough.

Except he couldn’t leave Ereinion back there, could he? He never asked to be a part of this mess; he was only dying in the alley, and Finrod was only taking pity, and then taking care, and then taking charge.

It was a few millenia late, but Finrod thought he’d take responsibility, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for clarification: yes, the shades are using their tears as counters for their bets.


	8. Yes, he's that way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finrod swallowed a little more of his scalding tea. “Please don’t kill me?”

Námo was rapidly getting used to headaches. Vairë, his dear and unhelpful partner, was entirely too smug about the whole thing.

“You should describe it to me sometime,” she said, not looking away from her unfinished carpet. “I hear that Manwë also gets them. You two should exchange notes.”

“Maybe I will,” he told her, “right after you tie that thrice-damned flaming clusterfuck of a Firstborn somewhere to collect dust.”

“I’ll consider it,” she said, and spoke no more, because Fëanor was back.

“Hello, good Vala. Valar.” And he turned to bow at the seamstress. “Good day to you, lady Vairë. I hope my mother is well?”

She grunted noncommittally, and walked away, leaving Námo to suffer this alone, because of course she did.

He prayed.

“Excellent! Now, lord Mandos, I understand that you are far-sighted in all things, what with knowing my father dies first and how us foolhardy Noldor would get ourselves in, well, quite a bit of a pickle! Now, with that knowledge in mind”--he paused for dramatic effect, and rubbed his hands together--“I would like to ask a tiny little question!”

Námo slid one hand down his face, convinced himself to not, _not_ , dissipate into smoke and clog up the stream of souls awaiting sentencing, and answered: “What do you want.”

“What did you tell that tall interviewer? Tecro, was it? Quite literal. Good lad! Interviewing you for the _Silmarillion_ , was it? Fair name, too. You see, I just couldn’t help bu-”

“Please for the love of Eru do _not_ pull a stunt like last time I’ll answer your questions,” groaned Námo. 

Fëanor smiled. This was not good. “I overheard something about ah, me walking amongst my kin once more? And sharing my knowledge of the crafting of Silmarils?”

Fuck. Námo knew exactly which part of the interview this rascal overheard, and yes, it would be terrible if it got out.

“I told him that you would remain in my Halls until the Sun passes and the Moon falls, and that no others shall know how to craft your cursed jewels until you yourself divulged,” explained Námo plainly.

Fëanor was no longer smiling. _Good_. “The Sun and the Moon… the fruit and the flower of the Trees.”

“Yes,” said Námo, who hoped that Fëanor would go away now, _please_.

“They would both fall at the End of Arda,” continued Fëanor.

“ _Yes_ ,” said Námo, louder.

“... No one said they wouldn’t fall sooner.”

This. This was why. People often said, _“Hey Mandos? Why are you so cryptic all the time?”_ or, if it was Irmo, _“Brother, your dreams are_ super _weird. I get that Eru showed you a lot of, well,_ stuff, _but seriously, I don’t even want to know what that is.”_ or Aulë, who mostly avoided him now, because the few times they spoke it was so awkward Yavanna had to rescue him.

This was why.

He didn’t lie; that would be unbecoming of a Vala. He just had to be so obscure not even Manwë wanted to see him until he had to.

“Would be real convenient, wouldn’t it, if, ah, a legendary Elven smith just pop out of Mandos and help fix the damaged vessels for the Sun and Moon? Not saying such a thing would happen, of course,” said Fëanor, who was smiling so radiantly he was _glowing_. “After all, I’m _not going to make them fall_. Just going to wait until someone out there does the deed. Yup! Just going to wait here until they do. Well, not right here, because obviously I’m disturbing the sentencings and such, but you know, I’m in the vicinity! Good talking with you!” 

And he blessedly bounced out.

“...Want me to sew his mouth shut?” asked Vairë, because of course she was _right there the whole time_. 

Knowing Fëanor, he’d probably burn them off at the first opportunity. Or cut them with who-knows-what. Or just wiggle loose.

(And then come back with Thingol as revenge, oh Eru, please not again, please that one time was enough, how could Melian ever love someone so, so _whiney_ , and then there’s Fëanor, and you put them together and it’s- it’s-

Námo took a breath in. A breath out. Counted to ten.)

“Yes, please.”

* * *

“I don’t understand why you can’t just share me,” complained Gil-galad, who’s done more than enough rounds with everyone to know that they didn’t actually mind having a communal child.

“Tell it to atar,” said Amrod, who was braiding his hair.

“Ah, right,” replied Gil-galad.

“If nana Nerdanel was here, she’d smack him,” said Celebrimbor, whose hair was being brushed by Amras.

“If amal was here, lots of things wouldn’t have happened,” answered Amras.

“She liked Aredhel,” said Celegorm, who just came back from setting a new high score for scaling the walls, which was now forty-five feet.

“She would’ve taken Fingon’s rope,” agreed Caranthir.

“She would’ve pommelled all of us,” said Turgon. There were ripples of agreement across the room.

“Is that how they got together?” asked Gil-galaad. “Pommelling.”

“Oh, darling,” said Celegorm. “You have no idea.”

* * *

Finrod thought he could stall for dear life by not going to the Jar and avoiding civilization in his cabin in the woods.

Finrod was very, very wrong.

Finrod had heard a knock on his door this morning. Finrod opened said door like an idiot, and was greeted by Nárwen on the other side.

“I’m going to come in and you’re going to answer my questions,” she said, smiling.

“Hahahahaha,” he said, stepping aside as she strode in. “U-um, how-”

“I’d _kill_ for some tea right now.”

“...yes.” He went to get tea. He poured. “W-what brings y-you?”

Nárwen had not stopped smiling. “Is Gil-galad yours?”

“L-like, b-biologically, or…?”

“Both.”

Finrod tried his scalding tea, got scalded, and began to explain. “W-well, I didn’t c-conceive him. N-n-n-not s-saying I c-c-could h-have c-conceived him! I-I-I-I’m n-not, you know... But h-he’s not mine. B-b-b-biologically! Techni-ni-cally, he’s m-mine.”

“Ah, right. He did say something about you saving him from the streets? And then feeding him and clothing him?”

Finrod let out a breath. A small one. Maybe she wasn’t here to kill him over unintentional child neglect? “Yes.”

Unfortunately, her smile widened. “And then, hmm, what was it… ah, yes. You seemed to also have _left him_ _two weeks later_ , and then _died to werewolves_.”

Finrod swallowed a little more of his scalding tea. “Please don’t kill me?”

“That is yet to be seen. Now, he mentioned that there was a wooden carving with him from his potential birth parents?”

Finrod continued to sip his stupid tea, though this time he swallowed for entirely different reasons. “You won’t like what it said.”

“Try me.”

Finrod did not want to, so he got out a piece of paper and a quill and wrote the words down.

“...Ah,” said Nárwen.

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t tell us this, why?”

“Because you would claim the child, and he’d stubbornly remain with you lot until the End, and he deserves better than that.”

Nárwen raised one unimpressed eyebrow. “From what little I’ve seen of Valinor, it’s better in the Halls.”

Finrod, who was currently hiding from civilization, sort of agreed. “How did you get out, anyways?”

“I didn’t participate in the Kinslaying. Or any slaying, for that matter.”

“So you could have left anytime?”

“And taken Caranthir’s remaining sanity with me while I avoid getting lynched?”

“... Right.” He put his face in his hands. “How did things get so twisted?”

“You’ll have to ask Eru for that,” she said, and finally began to drink her tea.

That was when the world went dark.

* * *

The short version was that the Moon crashed into Mandos. Fëanor will hear the long version later, after everyone got out.

He hoped that none of his will die in the stampede--and the ones who do will get justice, whatever that might be.

He hoped Maglor was out there somewhere, holding on, so he could begin to fix what he had wrought.

He hoped he could see Nerdanel again. (he did not dare to hope that she would see him)

He hoped that he’s not leading them to certain Doom, this time.

He prayed.

* * *

Námo didn’t greet the Valar. Just stuck one finger out and pointed into the murky distance.

“Yes, he’s that way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...But not until the End, when Fëanor shall return who perished ere the Sun was made, and sits now in the Halls of Awaiting and comes no more among his kin; not until the Sun passes and the Moon falls, shall it be known of what substance they were made." paragraph two, chapter seven of the Silmarillion, by J.R.R Tolkien.
> 
> Also, Tecro means "the writing one".
> 
> Dec 2020 edit: I'm currently looking for a Silmarillion beta! shoot me an email at villainousvivs@gmail.com if you're interested!


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